A great tragedy occurs at the 45-minute mark in Close, Lukas Dhont’s transcendent second feature. It’s a tragedy that rips you in two not just because of the gut-wrenching event itself, but for what the film is saying through its depiction of the close friendship – no, love – between two adolescent boys that challenges the meaning behind a word as banalized as “close.” Everything about the film, from the boys’ innocent complicities to the way Dhont sets them off against normalized physical aggression in the form of ice hockey, speaks of society’s wariness of same-sex affection yet encouragement of violence, the former seen as an aberration and the latter a rite of passage. Dhont never sexualizes these boys or their love, and it’s impossible to really grasp what love is for a couple of thirteen-year-olds, but in this beautiful, delicate film we get a glimpse of prelapsarian bliss made aberrant by rigid societal modes of behavior.
The director’s Girl was one of the more notable debuts of recent years, proclaiming him as a filmmaker with a remarkable sensitivity to character as well as cast, and with Close he confirms that trait: both films exude a generosity of spirit that ensures his characters live within us, their final shots imprinting themselves in our minds as we fervently wish the protagonists a fulfilling future. Girl keeps its focus tight and its critique of gender perception remains muted, whereas Close so astutely sets the boys’ affection for each other against the expectations of the broader world that it’s impossible not to feel a stinging rebuke. The film doesn’t howl and it doesn’t wail: its subtleties wrap themselves around us, perfectly calibrated and profoundly moving. We talk about the evanescence of childhood and yet we never escape its deathless imprint on our psyches; Dhont gives us a window onto its beauty and fragility, setting thoughts backwards towards inevitable what ifs and showing us a state of grace destroyed like a sandcastle whose form nevertheless remains. Close will certainly be celebrated.
We hear Leo (Eden Dambrine) and Remi (Gustav De Waele) before we see them, best friends at the end of their summer holiday playing war games in the way Americans of an earlier generation would play at Cowboys and Indians. Leo is the more imaginative one, directing the action and spinning elaborate tales to which Remi eagerly listens, reveling in his friend’s presence. They’re inseparable, racing through fields and riding their bikes; most nights Leo sleeps at Remi’s house, sharing a bed, at perfect ease with their bodies unselfconsciously touching one another. Their parents don’t question their closeness, it’s simply natural and unproblematized in this idyllic moment when Leo’s parents’ flower farm is bursting with life.
On the first day of middle school they sit side by side, their body language and shared confidences an inherent part of who they are as friends. But children notice such things, and some of the girls ask if they’re a couple. Leo is taken aback and defensive, denying that kind of relationship while Remi stands there in silence. During break time, when the kids are relaxing outside, Remi instinctively rests his head on Leo’s stomach, but Leo turns away, concerned about how their classmates will see him. Later when they’re sleeping at Remi’s house as usual, for the first time Leo moves off the bed to a mattress on the floor.
Their peers have placed them in a category, one Leo is deeply uncomfortable with, so he starts to separate, befriending the clique that teased them for being gay and joining the ice hockey team. Leo and Remi even fight in the school yard, not a playful tussle but a real brawl, their physicality for the first time turning violent. It’s so heartbreaking to watch because the naturalness of their loving friendship has been questioned, labeled and derided and all Remi can do is watch as Leo drifts away in shame.
Then tragedy strikes, and Remi is no longer there. In the ensuing hour that remains Leo tries to come to grips with his sense of guilt that he froze out his best friend, his soul mate. It counts for little whether Leo and Remi might have been a couple in the future – childhood friendships rarely last into adulthood – what matters is that an innocent love has been categorized as deviant and consequently severed in two. Dhont and his co-writer Angelo Tijssens blessedly don’t stereotype the boys’ families: there was no pressure from them, only the kind of love and support most children need but often don’t have. Leo’s grief, so difficult to convey in a thirteen-year-old, is given a counterweight in the beautifully crafted character of Remi’s mother Sophie (Emilie Dequenne), a maternity nurse at a loss to understand how her son could be gone.
Part of the film’s power lies in how Dhont juxtaposes the boys’ casually tender physicality with the encouraged violence of ice hockey, in which bodies are meant to collide in a normalized ritual that is the true definition of unnatural. Leo slamming himself against the rink’s barriers during a game in which players are encouraged to body check their opponents is considered ordinary behavior, whereas two boys lying against each other in friendly communion is seen by much of the world as deviant. The excellent sound design ensures that each bang of the protective gear is felt, never overdone but clear, heightening the obscene contrast between discouraged love and commended violence.
As with Girl much discussion will be heard about Dhont’s uncanny way with his actors, a talent which surely stems from the director’s ability to elicit total trust while conveying absolute sympathy for his actors. Blond Dambrine and brown-haired De Waele are quite simply remarkable, instinctive performers, so clearly at ease with each other and able to use that comfort without an ounce of artificiality. In addition Dambrine must carry the film’s tragic weight, which he handles with wrenching delicacy, as do all the actors playing the parents.
Dhont again works with d.o.p. Frank van den Eeden, and together the two have visualized a more colorful and tactile film full of the buoyancy of youth – scenes of the boys racing their bikes or running through fields of flowers underscores the carefree vitality of this moment that propels them forward as a duo, only to be interrupted, their companionship cut down to one. Also notable is Eve Martin’s production design, especially Remi’s house with its happy yellow kitchen and, for Remi’s room, red walls that form a special background to the boys’ closeness.
Director: Lukas Dhont
Screenplay: Lukas Dhont, Angelo Tijssens
Cast: Eden Dambrine, Gustav De Waele, Emilie Dequenne, Léa Drucker, Kevin Janssens, Marc Weiss, Igor Van Dessel, Léon Bataille, Serine Ayari, Robin Keyaert, Herman Van Slambrouck, Iven Deduytschaver, Jeffrey Vanhaeren, Hélene Theunissen, Baptiste Bataille.
Producers: Michiel Dhont, Dirk Impense
Co-producers: Michel Saint-Jean, Laurette Schillings, Arnold Heslenfeld, Frans van Gestel, Jacques-Henri Bronckart
Executive producer: Anne Mathieu
Cinematography: Frank van den Eeden
Production designer: Eve Martin
Costume designer: Manu Verschueren
Editing: Alain Dessauvage
Music: Valentin Hadjadj
Sound: Yanna Soentjens, Vincent Sinceretti
Production companies: Menuet (Belgium), Diaphana Films (France), Topkapi Films (The Netherlands), Versus Production (Belgium), VTM (Belgium), RTBF (Belgium)
World sales: The Match Factory
Venue: Cannes (competition)
In French, Flemish
103 minutes
